


Living is Harder

by L_A_Red94



Series: He is NOT my friend [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bickering, Gen, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 10:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9815090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_A_Red94/pseuds/L_A_Red94
Summary: All he had done was attempt to embrace death peacefully while clinging to his precious, precious bed.-Alexander decides to take care of a sick Thomas. With or without permission.





	

Alex let the door slam shut behind him, because he was made of maturity. He didn't want to have to go looking for Jefferson in this freakishly clean appartment, so he stood in the corridor and bellowed.

"I'm here!" After a minute of no response, he rolled his eyes and added, "if you're ignoring me, I'mma donate all your stupid ready meals to Syrian refugees!"

That, if anything, should have drawn a scowling, confidently ignorant Jefferson from his room spouting a whole mess of bullshit about border control. Instead, he was left in the eerily silent corridor.

Alexander rolled his eyes. Jefferson was home - his shoes were neatly lined outside his bedroom door, his car was in the drive. But rather than let him in like a normal person so that they could sit down and do their job, Jefferson had left him on the doorstep to maturely break in using a key he may or may not have stolen from Lafayette. And now the other man was in his bedroom, and everything was silent and god damn it, Alex was starting to worry. Rolling his eyes, angry with Jefferson and with himself for caring, he tentatively pushed the bedroom door open.

-

When he heard the door slam, Thomas wondered stupidly if Lafayette had cut his holiday short. He was making half hearted plans to go out and comfort the obviously pissed off french man when a voice proudly declared "I'm here!".

Jefferson swiftly concluded that this was the worst afternoon anybody had ever experienced. Of course he had told Hamilton to come over to work, with the library closed for repairs and the other man's budget not stretching to a cup of coffee of a weekend. Fucking scholarship kids. Had he rung the bell? How come Thomas hadn't heard?

Well, the ringing in his ears might account for that one.

But how did he get in? The answer waved at him smugly from Tennerife - of course Lafayette gave his friends keys to his apartment. He wanted to get up, storm into the corridor and tell Hamilton in no uncertain terms to piss off and never return but...

But his muscles contracted in pain whenever he even thought about moving, and his throat was burning and scratchy and opening his eyes sent a fresh spike of pain through his skull. Standing, storming, yelling at Hamilton... Not a chance. He could barely even roll his eyes at the stupid ready meals comment. For a moment, he hoped the intruder would give up and leave, but apparently he'd pissed off the gods, because he heard his bedroom door swing open.

"Jesus fuck, Jefferson," Thomas couldn't open his eyes, but he knew Hamilton was scowling from the doorway. "You on your death bed?"

With a grunt of agreement, he buried his face in a pillow. There was a long moment of silence.

"I swear to God, I should just leave you here," Hamilton's murmur was quiet, probably directed more towards himself than to Thomas. A hand rested on his forehead.

"How did you end up with a fever in April?" Mercifully, the voice was a little quieter. Thomas groaned in response, and the hand moved away.

He wasn't sure what was happening for a few minutes, but the cool air which began to circulate told him that the top light windows were open, and a bundle of soft landed beside him.

"You're still fully clothed, you asshole," Hamilton told him casually. "Those are the least foofy pyjamas you seem to own, so put them on. You'll feel more comfortable."

Turning his head was agony, but worth it to direct a well deserved glare at the intruder.

Hamilton was unpitying.

"Look, if my next therapy session has to address the trauma I sustained while changing your immature ass into pyjamas because you refuse to do it yourself, you're footing the bill."

"Immature?" his throat is wrecked, but he's proud to note that incredulity shines through it. Immature? Was he the one who broke into somebody's apartment, insulted their food, opened their windows and threw pyjamas at them? All he had done was attempt to embrace death peacefully while clinging to his precious, precious bed.

"Prove me wrong," Hamilton challenged, nodding to the pyjamas. "I'll be right back."

He shut the door softly this time, for no doubt nefarious reasons of his own, and Thomas stared at the bundle he'd given him. They were his oldest and comfiest pyjamas, dark blue and cotton. Groaning, he forced himself to sit up and change, letting his clothes pool in a messy heap next to his bed. He cringed at the sight, but the hamper was far away. Resigned, he collapsed back onto his pillows. A full minute later, Hamilton stood outside his door.

"Are you decent? Cough once for 'yes', twice for 'no', three times for 'almost', four times for-"

"Just come in, Hamilton," again, his disdain and irritation crossed the bounds of sickness and he felt a twinge of pride. The door opened, and Hamilton backed his way in, arms  
occupied with a large tray. What the hell had he done?

"There's soup," he sat the tray on the dresser and placed a large bucket - the mop bucket! - by Thomas's bed. Scowling, Hamilton threw the dirty clothes in the hamper. "You didn't have chicken, so it's oxtail. Who the hell has oxtail soup on hand? There's also tylenol and naproxen. You can take both at once - I checked the label. The naproxen is mine, by the way. Good for headaches. There's fruit juice, water, tea and a copy of gentlemen's quarterly I found in the living room. Which doesn't help with fevers as far as I know, I just wanted to tell you that I saw your copy of gentlemen's quarterly. And no, I'll never stop laughing about it."

Would the other man ever stop talking? At least Thomas could defend himself on the last front.

"It's Lafayette's," he struggled into a sitting position, eyeing the bucket warily. Hoped like hell he wouldn't need to use it.

Hamilton made an amused, choked-off sound.

"You think you know a guy," because even now, Thomas sometimes forgot that Hamilton and Lafayette were best friends. How could one of the best people he knew be such good friends with Hamilton?

A bowl of soup was thrust at him and he slowly, warily, swallowed it down. It didn't taste of much, and swallowing hurt, but by the time he sat down the empty bowl, the hollow feeling he'd had all day started to recede. Hamilton hovered, talking inanely and occasionally taking his temperature as he swallowed some meds. Head practically scraping in pain, he lowered it onto a pillow and tried to sleep.

"Thanks," he croaked, as Hamilton finally shut the upper window using a makeshift window pole out of one of his skiis. ("Who the hell brings skiis to college?") Everything was begining to pulsate fuzzily, so he wasn't sure if he said it aloud or just thought it. "I don't really wish you'd drowned on your crossing from Croix."

If Hamilton responded, then Thomas was too asleep to hear.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when he blinked awake in the sudden sunlight. The top lights only let in the sun for about an hour a day, and he was lucky enough to get a face full. Groaning, he leaned over and vomited into the bucket he was suddenly glad existed. His body was shaking as he limped to the bathroom, and everything was just  
terrible.

And when he finally reentered the room, relieved and a little cleaner, he scowled at the note on his dresser written on his Oxford paper in his fountain pen in Hamilton's horrific writing (as though he didn't keep spare pens and note paper on his person like James kept tissues).

_I have a class and I need to pick up some more groceries. I'm staying in Laf's room until you look less pathetic. Madison's coming tomorrow. Get better soon, you prick._

Well, he thought as he collapsed back into a fitful sleep, at least it was short.

**Author's Note:**

> Idk? I'm just kinda trashy? Like, so much of my life is currently dedicated to Hamilton and Jefferson's tempestuous friendship? Let me know what you think!


End file.
